


it isn’t the storm (that makes the ocean dangerous)

by meekinheritance, shut UP and DIE with me (meekinheritance)



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Bisexuality, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Demisexuality, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Sexual Content, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Smut, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Issues, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Internalized Misogyny, M/M, Misogyny, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Edward Nygma, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Not Canon Compliant, Queer Themes, Sexual Tension, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threats of Violence, Trans Male Character, Trans Oswald Cobblepot, Transphobia, no actual non-con, until Ed and Oz meet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:08:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24285601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meekinheritance/pseuds/meekinheritance, https://archiveofourown.org/users/meekinheritance/pseuds/shut%20UP%20and%20DIE%20with%20me
Summary: “We call it bacha posh,” the man explains, eyeing Oswald with a frown.“I’m sorry,” Oswald blinks up at him in confusion, masking his irritation. “What’s that mean?”“Girls that dress as boys.”His entire body spasms with objection and his grip on the can tightens, taking a half step back.“It is not so strange, but you are too old for this,” He goes on to say, blocking with a heavy hand on the nearest shelf in Oswald’s path when he tries to go around him again.“Your mother does you a disservice the longer she allows this to continue. You’ll be a woman soon, as soon as you begin tobleed-”Oswald pitches the can at him so hard he hears the crunch of his nose caving in.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma
Comments: 23
Kudos: 74





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> while I often try not to make stories where a character being Trans isn't a Big Part of the story, this one is quite the opposite. It's about being a Transgender Kingpin and, specifically, how others treat him because of this. While I don't intend this to be ridiculously dark (at least, outside of the general nature of the show), there will be some transphobia, there might be some scenes that make people dysphoric.
> 
> I believe in Gotham, Oswald's gender would be used against him, and therefore he would try to use it against other people, in much the same way that he uses being a small, somewhat effeminate, nervous, disabled guy to get people to let their guard down canonically.

_"The terrible things that happened to you didn't make you you._

_You always were."_

To know oneself is not a simple task, especially when all the world would rather obscure it to meet its own ends. Gertrud Cobblepot has taken great care to know her child. 

She decided the moment she felt the first sparks of life swelling in her belly that no child of hers would want for anything that it was in her power to give. Some have dared to tell her that she’s bound to spoil her progeny rotten, but she cannot fathom how giving everything she has could ever be wrong. Her home had been owned by secrets throughout her childhood, held in the hands of corruption that sequestered luxuries like personal freedom for only the wealthy. 

Coming to Gotham had not changed much, except that she has the power to ensure that her child is not bound by the same indignities that she had been. She had learned to exploit the system to survive and she had done things that she should not have in the process. 

Her child would not need to live that way. Her child would have anything they desired.

So when that precious little hand points to a dapper fellow dancing on the television screen and asks to dress in clothes like that, she sees him. When her child gets reprimanded by another parent for demanding one of the blue gift bags at another child’s birthday party, she sees him. When a teacher calls her in to discuss the refusal to wear the dress necessary for a role in the school play, she sees him.

“Are you?” she asks one day, cupping those freckled cheeks. “Are you my boy?”

“Yes.” He cries like a baby, like _her_ baby. “Yes.”

She homeschools him for the better part of a year while they wait for the paperwork to go through, and then she enrolls him in a new school where no one knows him. She watches him moult, protects him during the teneral, soft-bodied stages, and watches her Oswald emerge.

-

The first person Oswald Cobblepot ever kills is the man who owns his neighborhood corner store. 

His mother needs a can of tomato sauce for the dinner she has planned, and this is the closest place to their apartment. At thirteen, he has taken on more responsibility for the household, so running errands like this is a common occurrence. He takes pride in being the man of the house, and his mother takes pride in him too. Before he leaves the house, every time, his mother straightens his collar, smooths her hands down his arms, kisses his forehead, and tells him to be a good boy.

As soon as he plucks the can of tomato sauce off the shelf, he turns back toward the register, but finds that his path is blocked by the store owner. He is not especially tall, but Oswald is short for his age and particularly delicate of stature. While he could turn around and loop all the way around the other end of the store, he still needs to pay, and it seems as though he’s being looked at with intent. The man does not just happen to be in his way; he is facing Oswald, peering down at him with deep set eyes.

Irritation perks it’s head over Oswald’s shoulder, but he’s used to this behavior, from adults that like to lord their size over children and bullies in class that like to make the gifted ones flinch.

“Excuse me, Sir,” Oswald says, polite and clipped.

His mother has always taught him to be a gentleman, even when others do not give him the same courtesy. Oswald starts to step to one side around him, but the man’s stocky build shifts to block the narrow aisle even further. The way he’s being looked at makes his skin crawl and his hairs stand on end.

“We call it _bacha posh_ ,” he explains, eyeing Oswald with a frown. 

“I’m sorry,” Oswald blinks up at him in confusion, masking his irritation. “What’s that mean?”

“Girls that dress as boys.”

His entire body spasms with objection and his grip on the can tightens, taking a half step back.

“It is not so strange, but you are too old for this,” He goes on to say, blocking with a heavy hand on the nearest shelf in Oswald’s path when he tries to go around him again.“Your mother does you a disservice the longer she allows this to continue. You’ll be a woman soon, as soon as you begin to _bleed_ -”

Oswald pitches the can at him so hard he hears the crunch of his nose caving in.

With a pained shout, the shop owner falls to his knees, and Oswald grabs another can from the shelf, one large enough that he has to hold it in both hands. While the man is kneeling and clutching his nose, Oswald brings the can down on the back of his head again, and again, letting the sharp edge of the cylinder fall against the crown. It takes four blows before the man falls forward onto his face. 

He hears another crack as his nose makes impact again, and Oswald steps out of his way to avoid the pool of blood that is forming on the checkered tile floor. Panting heavily, Oswald raises the can over his head for the final blow, and releases it, letting it put a satisfying dent in the back of the man's head. 

Oswald takes an unblemished can from the shelf before he leaves and trembles all the way home, looking over his shoulder to make sure he isn’t being followed. He tells his mother the splotches are from a defective can of sauce, and there is no reason for her not to believe him. She coos and thanks him for his trouble, then helps wash the red off of his skin while dinner simmers.

He lies awake and listens to every siren that passes by that night, waiting for the police to show up and take him away. But this, he learns, is _Gotham_ ; the police never come when they should, especially to this part of town. His mother hears about it from a neighbor who knew him, and she moans about what the world is coming to, but never speaks of it again. The death is only one of a dozen unsolved murders that day, drowned in a sea of violence so vast that it isn’t even in the news. 

The next day, there are more, and the next and the next. Oswald feels like a single drop in the ocean of crime, and although he doesn’t want to be _caught_ , it takes him a while to realize why he is so disappointed. He does not want to be small and insignificant, no matter what the consequences might be. When he’d killed that man, he’d reversed the order; Oswald made _him_ weak, made _him_ bleed.

The next shop owner gets cameras installed, but fortunately, there is no provocation to test them.

-

“What’s ya name, bird?”

The job interview isn’t off to a good start, but Oswald is determined. He is going to work at this club, no matter what humiliation he has to endure to do so. Fish Mooney is even more diminutive than he is, even in her stilettos, but she fears nothing and no one. Not even Falcone.

“Oswald. Oswald Cobblepot.”

The man doesn’t look up from the clipboard with Oswald’s resume.

“S’a boy’s name.”

“ _Yes,_ ” Oswald barely holds his tongue back from snapping, “It _is._ ”

The man looks up at him, seeing him fully for the first time. Oswald has been fortunate enough to be on puberty blockers, so his secondary sex characteristics were stunted early, but he’s only been on testosterone for a year, thanks to an easily blackmailed pharmacist. 

He wears makeup to thicken his brows and shape his jaw line, but plenty of people see him as an awkward-looking girl in men’s clothes rather than a young, frail boy. His voice is still high and emotive, only just beginning to crack, which means that even if people were to look at him and see what he wants them to, the illusion splinters when he opens his mouth. This man has only heard him on the telephone previous to this initial interview, and he’s not particularly attentive. 

He hasn’t even noticed the fine suit that Oswald is wearing for the occasion. It had been mildly difficult to kill the man he’d procured it from without staining it with blood. Duct taping a plastic bag over his head had done the trick though. It is bespoke, just not to his exact measurements - it is still the best Oswald had ever looked, and this man is _still_ making such a careless mistake.

“Oh, sorry. You must get that all the time.”

“Like you wouldn’t _believe_ ,” Oswald laughs, shaking his head and waving his hand as if he isn’t already planning to kill this man and take his job.

“The hostess position is for women,” He shuffles Oswald’s paperwork and shrugs. “but we are lookin’ for a busboy. S’a little less glamorous.”

“Oh, I don’t require glamour, Sir, though I _do_ admire it,” Oswald took a moment to look around the establishment with overt appreciation. “Fish Mooney is as glamorous as they come, after all. But I am willing to work my way up from the bottom.”

-

“Alright, line up, everyone,” Butch calls out, firm but good-natured. There are men at every exit, just in case, but he doesn’t want to get too _barky_ just yet. Cleaner this way. Once every employee in the club is accounted for and lined up around the dining room, Butch continues. “Somehow major crimes got enough information for a warrant. If I’d seen them coming a minute later, they would have seized the money that keeps this dive open, pays _your_ bills...well, you know what that means.”

Butch opens his palms toward the ceiling around the room, watching for twitches. No one gives away any tells, but the pressure has barely been applied, and rats are usually fairly good liars anyway.

“Fish is afraid that someone in here might not have the best interests of the club in mind,” Butch says, shaking his head in disappointment. “So as a precaution, everyone needs to strip down to their jimmies so we can check for wires.”

There’s a general murmur of discontent, some hesitation, a few complaints, but everyone seems to understand that this isn’t a request. Well, almost everyone.

A tense little guy in the corner of the room is rooted to the spot. Started as a busboy less than a year ago, currently in a kitchen supervisor vest. Adolescent looking, but a climber. Butch has seen him around, exchanged an occasional pleasantry, but hasn’t ever looked at him for longer than a second or two. He’s looking now though, eyes narrowing in on stiff body language. He hasn’t moved to disrobe.

“Go on,” Butch says when he approaches, and decides to keep it light for now. “It’s chilly in here, huh? You can get dressed again just as soon as we’re done, kid.”

The little guy gets almost comically twitchy.

“...I, uh. I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

Butch sighs. Pop goes the weasel. Or, _whack a mole_ might be more appropriate.

“Alright,” he says, snapping at one of his guys standing nearby. “Watch the rest of them, will you? This one is coming with me.”

A nod confirms the exchange of duties, and Butch starts toward the newfound snitch.

“No,” the little guy raises his hands and backs up a step. “ _No,_ it isn’t like that at all, listen -”

“Save it for Miss Mooney,” Butch grunts, grabbing the man’s arm and hauling him over his shoulder. 

It isn’t difficult, even with him squirming and patting at his back, to carry him down the narrow lamplit hall. A few huffs of amusement from kitchen staff on his way out are notable, and they aren’t just sighs of relief that the attention isn’t on them anymore. It tells Butch the kid isn’t particularly well liked.

“You mustn’t,” the little guy pleads. “This isn’t what it looks like!”

“No?” Butch humors as he carries the snitch off toward Fish’s office in the back, where he knows he’s waiting for his news. “Miss Mooney is reasonable. If you aren’t wired, you’ll be fine. ”

“I’m not! Un _hand_ me, put me _down_ -”

He only does so once the door to Fish’s office shuts behind him. 

“Someone caved that quickly, Butch?”

A lazy surprise laces through her voice as she turns toward them in her high-backed chair, eyes curious and hungry, honing in on the man in his hold with cat-like intensity. 

“They don’t make snitches like they used to,” Butch grunts, and isn’t gentle about setting the little guy down. The snitch stumbles, rolling onto the floor and then scrambling quickly to his feet in the next moment, his breathing erratic as he straightens the front of his jacket.

“Oswald, isn’t it?” she frowns. “I thought you were smarter than that. How disappointing.”

“No! It isn’t me,” the little guy - Oswald, Butch supposes, not that’ll matter for much longer - insists, “I would never betray your trust like that Miss Mooney! I _swear_ it.”

“Only one that wouldn’t undress,” Butch explains when she raises an eyebrow. There’s a genuine and pathetic quality to Oswald’s voice that is almost believable. 

“You must understand why that’s suspicious, Oswald,” she says, in a tone that is as patient as it is sinister. Butch nearly shivers himself and is glad he’s not on the receiving end.

“Yes, of _course_ , but I _assure_ you,” Oswald tells her, “My modesty has nothing to do with -”

“And so you must understand why I can’t simply take your _word_ for it.”

Oswald makes a strangled, squeaky sort of sound. He sounds like a mouse even though he looks like a bird, and he’s begun to shake so hard that it’s difficult not to feel a little bad for him.

“Please, Miss Mooney, I _beg of you_.”

She stares at him for a moment, but Butch has known her long enough that he can tell that she’s not actually considering it. Fish is just pausing for the effect.

“Butch,” Fish sighs, flicking out all of her fingers in a brushing movement. “Do it the hard way.”

Butch isn’t super fond of this part, no matter what threats he makes for intimidation purposes. He’s a big man, and while that isn’t always a plus, it’s definitely useful in this business. He starts toward Oswald, and the slip of a thing actually manages to dart backward and out of his grasp. Quick little bastard. It’s not just that Butch is slow, either, though that doesn’t help.

Butch turns toward him and reaches for him with more purpose. Brain power isn’t usually what he’s called upon for, but Butch isn’t an idiot. He is often clocked as one, but it’s a misconception, one he can use. Oswald doesn’t underestimate him though; he anticipates Butch’s feint and spins out of the way.

“C’mon,” Butch exhales, “You’re making this worse than it has to be.”

This time he catches Oswald by the tail of his jacket and pulls him back against his chest sharply. He pops the buttons on Oswald’s suit and starts rucking up his shirt. The fabric crumples in his thick fingers. There are too many layers for it to be easy, even without the mess of jerking limbs. 

“Wait! I don’t know who the snitch is but I can help you smoke him out! I’m good at that, I _listen_ , I’m already pretty sure I have it narrowed down to a few - nonono, wait, _wait_ -”

He doesn’t bother taking anything off entirely, just tugging everything up and over his head, trapping his arms in an unforgiving swaddle. But there’s another layer Butch doesn't expect when his hand reaches down to feel for a wire. An undershirt of some kind, but tight enough to be a girdle, which is weird, because Oswald is just about the scrawniest guy Butch has ever seen.

It’s too easy to keep him in place while he gropes for the hem of that layer too, even though Oswald’s trembling has grown so severe it’s even making Butch squeamish.

“Butch, stop.”

He freezes with his fist wrapped in the material above Oswald’s head, the spiky nest of black hair hidden and arms trapped above awkwardly in a tangle of fabric.

Fish stands up, the motion smooth but sudden.

“Let go of him.”

“What?” Butch says, even as he does so, brow furrowing.

He watches as Oswald takes a few blind steps away, wrestling his shirt back down, but not before the gears in Butch’s head shriek to a halt. 

“You’re a -”

“ _Butch,_ ” Fish snarls to shut him up and then slinks over to where Oswald is shrinking against the wall, wilting like a flower. Butch’s head hurts and his stomach twists in a way he thought he'd trained out of it ages ago. 

“I’m sorry, Miss Mooney, I should have - I should have just _said,_ but I didn’t, I didn’t know how -”

Fish cups either side of his face and draws him close, letting him duck her head into her shoulder as she draws him into an embrace. He hesitates, frozen for an instant, and then melts into a hug and sobs openly in a way that makes Butch terribly uncomfortable. He considers leaving, but Fish hasn’t given him permission to do so. The kid is sniffling and trying to explain himself through gasps for breath.

“Shh. Oswald, you’re good.”

Butch feels out of place, watching Fish pet his hair and coo in his ear.

“It’s all good.”

-

There’s a reason that Oswald chose Fish Mooney’s club, after all. 

He could have wormed his way into any of the territories, but there is so much machismo, so much _privilege,_ that ingratiating himself into the upper ranks would have been next to impossible. He knows what he looks like, knows how other people - especially other men - see him. He would have spent a decade trying to earn the trust of some lower boss and never earned an ounce of their respect. 

At first, he just figures that because she’s a woman, because she’s small, even smaller than him, that she won’t discriminate, but after a few months of close examination, Oswald finds something even better than that. Fish hires pretty and talented people for the face of the club, but her closest employees are outcasts. In the underbelly of Gotham there are few that prescribe to being _normal,_ but in this club there is a home for those that Falcone and the others consider weak. Illegal immigrants, the disabled, the mentally challenged, the low functioning, the neurodiverse, the _ugly_. Even Butch, he learns through the grapevine, has bipolar personality disorder. 

The pattern is clear.

Oswald is not the snitch _this time_ , but he may have whispered in his supervisor’s ear over the last few months, may have planted the seeds of an idea. The man is a lazy, obnoxious fellow that promotes only the pretty ones he thinks might give him the time of day. He’d listened quietly from the bussing station as the man complained about wages and overtime, pawning his work off on underlings.

“I - I just thought you should know. A detective approached me to offer me a deal,” Oswald had lied quietly, amping up his nerves, “She said there was money in it, you know, and protection.”

His supervisor had balked. “You’re thinking of taking it?”

“Oh, no!” Oswald had gushed. “I could never stand up to them like that. I’m not brave enough, even if ...it’s probably the right thing to do.”

Too easy. From there the key had just been making work as frustrating as possible for the man. 

When Fish holds Oswald to her chest to reassure him, he knows that he’s won. He’s on the way. However uncomfortable he often is in his own skin, he knows there is nothing to be ashamed of. Dysphoria isn’t why he keeps to himself, though it is not inconsequential. It is simply one detail of many, like his height and build, like his freckles and nose and eyes, like any other part of himself that can be weaponized. Above all, it is just _information,_ and like any other kind of information, it is essential to use it in the most strategic way possible.

It’s a piece of cake to ‘discover’ his supervisor’s betrayal and then humbly take his place as soon as he is out of the picture. It’s even simpler to earn Fish’s favor and Butch’s oddly protective eye now that they know. It’s pity, not respect, but it will do for now. Their indiscretion grows with every year he carefully, quietly plots, until sometimes they speak like he isn’t there at all. 

His truth is a _gift_. This weakness that others perceive he has, it has made him stronger than they can ever know. Their ordinary minds cannot fathom who he is, and that’s fine.

This isn’t the first time being unknowable works in his favor, nor is it the last.


	2. Chapter 2

On the playground in fourth grade, a boy whose name never mattered refuses to let Oswald act as King during pretend play. He insists that boys are Kings and girls are Queens, and while Oswald supposes that must be true historically, he does not understand what that has to do with him. 

So Oswald, though he has not chosen that name yet, pushes the boy off the top of the slide.

It’s several more years before he realizes that the child he’d been that day already bore the vestiges of his true ambition, before he’d known it himself. Before he’d recovered from the frustration and fury and hopelessness that stewed in his stomach, the echo of that boy and all of history mocking him, laughing and sneering -

‘ _ girls can never be king’. _

He does not have the words to describe how wrong that statement is, in more ways than one. How lost he feels, adrift in the eyes of everyone who sees him the wrong way. 

For Halloween the next year, his mother helps him dress as  _ Peter the Great _ , sewing an intricate cape for him and making an Imperial Crown of Russia out of glitter, cardboard, and dollar store rhinestones. The sword is plastic, but it whacks significant bruises into the children who laugh at him, until his teacher snatches it out of his hands and sends him to the principal’s office.

His mother had praised him for his efforts, smoothing his hair back as she tucked him into bed. 

“Oswald,” she said what she said often, kissing him on the forehead. “Don’t listen to the other children. You are  _ handsome _ , and you are  _ clever _ , and someday you will be a  _ great man _ .”

-

Oswald has the gift of sight. 

It is part inborn and part learned. His mother helped him see himself at a young age, and ever since he has been trying to control the way he is seen, to the point of obsession. Some things are lost to the wind, uncontrollable and unmovable. Those are the traits that he must use as anchors, both to ground himself in his goals and to sink those that stand in his way.

This sight allows him to see into the future, but it also allows him to see the way others see him with utmost clarity. He knows that his co-workers don’t understand why he was promoted to Back of House Manager when he sniffed the former one out for being a snitch. He knows men do not see him as a physical threat, that girls do not consider him romantic material, which is for the best. He knows that strangers barely see him at all.

He can see the way Fish sees him; unique and a little bit tragic. She likes that he’s clever, but thinks he’s too spineless and weak to overstep. He plays that up; he rubs her feet, bows his head in respect, jumps when she says jump. Plays the role so well, his next promotion is to Umbrella Boy. 

Butch sees him like a pesky younger sibling. He takes him under his wing and shows him the ropes. He gives him a hard time, but almost playfully, and always lurks in the background when one of the larger men on payroll try to get into Oswald’s space for intimidation purposes. He doesn’t really  _ like _ Oswald, per se, but he is protective in a way that he tends to reserve for women.

There is a quiet place in Oswald’s heart reserved for contempt, and although they never go so far as outing him or misgendering him, that space is reserved for them. A dark and lonely shelf in a cupboard that he shuts away until the opportune time.

His jaw grows firmer, his shoulders widen, his voice drops, and his Adam’s apple comes in. He buys suits that are fitted to his measurements perfectly, and has been on testosterone long enough to fill them out. Enough people die around him that the turn over rate at the club is quite high, and after eight years at Mooney’s club, practically no one knows him as the barely passing waif that came through those doors for the first time. 

-

Frankie bends the rat over the slicer during Jim’s life-saving anecdote. He hyperventilates and struggles so desperately that he manages to get a kick to the balls, making pain explode behind Frankie’s eyes. Rage is right behind it. His blood boils. He doesn’t usually take pleasure in killing, but he’s sure this guy is going to be an exception.

“Mother  _ fucker _ , you little piece of -” Frankie slams him back to the counter right beside the slicer and brings his knee up hard between the rat’s legs in retaliation.

It’s so hard the rat doesn’t even have time to make a squeaky plea. He just yelps as the impact jolts him so hard his whole body jerks. Even though Frankie’s leg isn’t there long, he’s kneed enough ball sacs to know what one feels like getting crushed. He’d done it hard enough to castrate the slimy vermin, but instead he felt an decided  _ absence. _

“...the  _ hell _ .”

The way the rat is frozen in place even after Frankie takes a stunned step back answers the question that stabs through his brain.

A confused henchman grunts, “Wha? Why’d you let him -”

Just then, Maroni’s booming voice sounds throughout the restaurant, ringing with approval.

“ _ The little bastard is telling the truth!” _

“...nothin’,” Frankie sneers, hauling the rat back off the counter and back toward the center restaurant table.

The rat is still there, promoted  _ again _ , beady eyes darting toward him with a pleading expression that Frankie has no patience for. This is no place for wet eyes and trembling hands. As soon as Frankie can get Maroni alone later that night, he tells him exactly what the rat is.

The fact that Maroni just seems amused, almost  _ charmed,  _ makes the whole thing more infuriating.

-

It isn’t until he works for Don Maroni that the name  _ Penguin  _ sets in. It is, at best, a step up from  _ bird _ , but it still fills him with revulsion. It points out that he’s impaired, that he’s  _ small _ and  _ delicate. _

But many aspects of being in Maroni’s employ make him feel that way. He has just traded one master for another, and will do so again before the year is out. 

Maroni sees him as a girl playing dress up, and considers himself kind for not spoiling Oswald’s self-delusion. He never outright refers to Oswald by the wrong pronouns, never tries to touch him, but there are a few glances that make Oswald’s skin crawl. Maroni calls him  _ toots  _ sometimes when no one else can hear, usually as a ploy to nudge Oswald back into what Maroni thinks is  _ his place. _

Oswald prefers ‘ _ second banana’, _ but he isn’t asked his opinion.

“You... scaly faced... little.... _ bitch, _ ” Fish snarls, getting right up in his face and holding the flicker of hurt that he feels claw its way out of his pupils. 

His new boss laughs about a ‘cat fight’ later on that night, and Oswald tucks a notion into the back of his mind for another day. A burning fist twists in his stomach, but he cools it with the reminder of what is to come. There is no use in seething for long. Maroni has, in his casual disrespect, drawn a target on the thing that will kill him. They always do.

-

“Remember,” Fish murmurs, her eyes painting a path down Oswald’s form. “ _ things change _ .”

She doesn’t tell anyone, as far as Oswald is aware. He is fairly sure it’s simply because she’s waiting for the right time, the moment that it will make the most impact. 

It’s a testimony to Oswald’s talents that she never gets the chance.

-

“Will you shut up and take it like a man?” 

Maroni scoffs at him with such smugness in his voice, like he’s so pleased with how he’d used that platitude, as the crusher lowers itself toward Oswald, slow but unyielding. As if a penis might make him more inclined to have his bones compacted into dust. He can talk himself out of almost any situation, but Don Maroni just  _ hangs up  _ on him. 

No matter. He finds another path to survival, as always.

-

There is no reason for Falcone to know yet, and judging by how ruthlessly he killed Liza, it wouldn’t save him anyway. Sometimes Oswald thinks that Victor Zsasz’s gaze lingers on him knowingly, but he chalks that up to paranoia. Besides, Zsasz is always a little weird.

“Don Falcone,  _ please.  _ Maroni wants my scalp, and you’d have me  _ redecorate. _ ”

Sometimes Falcone is so  _ obvious _ that it frustrates Oswald how he managed to get this far with such an exploitable weakness. Old-fashioned as Oswald is in some ways, he would never underestimate Liza simply because she’s a woman with a nice voice. Falcone’s image of some innocent little thing doing housework and bringing him tea is going to be the end of him.

What foolish men Oswald is surrounded by. To think, they believe they are humoring _ him. _

-

“Edward,” Ed introduces himself, annunciating. “Nygma.”

There is no recognition, just an irritated series of blinks. A beat of disappointment knocks against Edward’s guts for some ridiculous reason. Of course The Penguin doesn’t know  _ him. _

“I know who  _ you _ are.”

The facts pour out of The Penguin’s features readily. He is expressive, an easy read. Though he is also self-aware enough to know that about himself and use it against those that might use it against him. It’s why he’s made it as far as he had, given his disposition and stature.

_ Facts _ : Oswald Cobblepot is The Penguin. For a while, he was considered dead by Jim Gordon’s hand, and then showed up out of the blue as if to defend Gordon’s honor.

That day, Ed filed the name away. Today, he’d seen him enter the precinct, and plucked the file out.

_ Details _ : There’s the briefest of flickers [uncertainty] and then a pursing of the lips [decision]. Then he gives a smile that isn’t genuine in the least [unamused, irritated, defensive]. The puffed-up swagger that he entered the precinct with curdles under closer inspection [prickly, jumpy, self-conscious].

_Conclusion_ : Mr. Penguin momentarily entertains the idea that Ed is aware of his gender status, only to quickly remind himself that it’s unlikely. _Further_ _conclusion_ : The prospect that a stranger is aware that he’s transgender is alarming; considering how difficult it is to be a cisgender woman in the criminal underground, it is unsurprising that such a thing could be a hinderance as well.

Fair enough. Ed has been on the receiving end of taunts and physical threats for far more common characteristics than those belonging to the small man in front of him. The police are supposed to be the good guys, but bullying and bigotry are rampant. 

Ed takes a step back, as asked, thoughtful. 

Mr. Penguin had only considered the idea tangentially before bristling and turning away. It might actually be  _ more _ worrisome if he isn’t  _ sure _ that Edward knows, let alone if he will use that knowledge against him. Nothing in Mr. Penguin’s demeanor suggests he considers Edward a threat, but there is still a lingering hesitance that Edward would prefer to get past, if possible. This is a dangerous man, after all, and Edward would rather not be killed due to a misunderstanding. 

An ice-breaker is necessary.

_ Procedure _ : Social; positive; indicate reassurance.

“Did you know that the only way to distinguish reliably between some male and female penguins is to examine their chromosomes, or their internal organs?”

Oswald Cobblepot tenses, winding like a spring as he turns back to him slowly, eyes even colder than they had been previously.

_ Procedure, addendum _ : Cleverness alone is insufficient; exhibition of explicit approval needed.

“Isn’t that  _ neat _ ?”

That should clear that up.

Ed is confused when it seems to do the opposite.

_ Result _ : His nostrils flare and his eyes widen, fingers clenching until his hands are little fists at his sides and the suspicion on his features twists into abject distrust. 

More data is definitely going to be necessary in order to properly review the procedure, which is frustrating. Ed has never met anyone quite like Oswald Cobblepot, so he supposes that it is understandable that more data must be collected.

The paper in The Penguin’s hand crumples into one small, pale fist.

“Nice to meet you, sir,” Cobblepot says in a way that makes Edward doubt he means it. But then, to Edward’s surprise, he steps forward, taking back the space that he’d indicated was  _ too close _ just moments ago. “Interesting little  _ factoid  _ you have there. I trust your knowledge base extends beyond penguins, Mr.  _ Nygma _ ?”

Cobblepot smiles [ _ details _ : sharp, calculating, like he’s solving something, a riddle, a  _ problem _ ] at Edward and Edward returns it eagerly. 

He hadn’t looked like he’d remember Edward’s name, but he’s clearly sparked an interest, or perhaps an uncertainty. A precarious thing, to a man like Penguin, but Edward doesn’t shy away from the thrill like he probably should [ _ details, emotional: _ his heart is thrumming, something like fear coursing through his veins, but not cold, like fear usually is].

“Well, yes, I’m well versed in many subjects -”

“I’m sure you  _ are _ ,” Oswald cuts him off and reaches out, shoving the paper in his hand against the front of Edward’s chest, flattening some of the wrinkles against him. “You are an…  _ intriguing _ man. Great at parties, I’ll bet!”

Edward’s brow creases, and he opens his mouth to refute the assumption [he’s been told he’s an absolute bore at parties at  _ best,  _ an awkward mess at worst] but Cobblepot cuts him off again.

“I’m having a little celebration tonight, and I would  _ love  _ it if you’d stop by,” Cobblepot’s eyes are a green grey, reminding Edward of a sample of river water he’d collected after a hurricane. His cheekbones apple outward with an impish smile when he goes on, “ _ If _ you don’t have any plans!”

_ Facts _ : Edward does not have plans. He never has plans. 

_ Details _ : The Penguin’s expression is lilted with knowing and expectation. He seems aware that Edward does not have plans, and thus has assessed that Edward is not the type to  _ have _ plans.

_ Conclusion _ : Penguin has made a judgement about him. Whether or not it is that he is a friendless loser - not an uncommon assessment around here - or that he will make time for Penguin regardless of any predetermined plans is unclear, but mostly irrelevant.

A pang of frustration carves itself into Edward’s chest, and his mouth falls into a frown.

_ Conclusion, emotional _ : Not entirely irrelevant, perhaps.

Nevertheless, he accepts the invitation by pinning it to his chest with one hand so that Cobblepot can retract his own [he does, immediately]. His other hand goes up to straighten his glasses, pushing them further up the bridge of his nose as the smaller man reclaims his distance.

“I’ll be there,” he replies, swallowing.

“ _ So  _ looking forward to it,” Cobblepot says through his teeth, his grin almost a sneer as he turns away again. “Good day, sir. Keep moving.”

Edward feels his face pinch a little, but he tucks his chin into a single nod.

“Will do,” he says, unfolding the invitation as he makes his way back to his desk.

_ Facts _ : Oswald Cobblepot has handed him an invitation to the opening of his new club, the one which used to belong to Fish Mooney.

_ Details _ : He brought it here ahead of time, ~~meaning that it was not originally meant for him~~ [obvious to the point of redundancy, unnecessary detail]. The paper is wrinkled, and Cobblepot had not seemed particularly happy to be giving it to him. It is very likely he was here for Jim Gordon, as Edward had observed no other officer that the Penguin might hold any allegiance to. 

_ Further details, personal _ : Edward has not been invited to a party since he was a boy, and that had been out of pity. It had not been a good experience. 

This had been out of… something else. Penguin was sending mixed signals about whether or not the interaction was a positive one or not. He’d smiled and invited him to a party, but he’d gone cold-eyed and stiff and told him to move along. Whether he’d invited Edward to the party to kill him on his own territory or to pick his brain about his observational skills remains to be seen. 

_ Conclusion _ : Edward has either made a very powerful enemy - or, might have the ability to attain a powerful friend.

What he needs one for, he doesn’t know, but he  _ had _ approached the Penguin for a reason. He must have, though one doesn’t immediately come to mind. He has always been fascinated with crime in an objective sense, to the point that his coworkers had seemed unnerved by it, so he figures that must have something to do with it.

The Penguin is a fascinating specimen of crime, not only because of his gender status, but for a culmination of traits. Diminutive, physically impaired, fragile in appearance if not entirely in truth. Born into poverty, a second generation immigrant, raised by a single mother [his mother had been arrested a couple times on small charges; this information was not difficult to find, though perhaps not ethical to indulge in]. Nervous, twitchy,  _ seemingly _ weak-willed.

There are not many people in Gotham who live to be thirty-years-old with half those attributes. The chance of getting murdered as a transgender individual alone skyrockets, and those that make it are usually the type that keep their head down. Adding poverty and being the child of an immigrant, the likelihood of even moderate success is significantly dampened, let alone abject  _ notoriety.  _ They are low-level workers, taking a thousand silent abuses and microaggressions in stride. 

Not unlike Edward's current station in life, though he tries not to linger on that thought.

[ _ Details: he does anyway. _ ]

But, against all odds, Oswald Cobblepot has managed to move up the ranks in the criminal underground, staying alive after leveraging the betrayal of  _ two  _ powerful Dons in his favor.

He is an exception to the rule, an anomaly, a - a  _ riddle _ . That must be it. Edward’s fascination is that of a scientist evaluating an inconsistency in the data. There is something to learn from him.

First, there is a choice to be made.

_ Conclusion _ ,  _ ultimatum _ : Attend the party, or don’t. 

If Oswald’s invitation is one of friendship, then Edward will be snubbing him. If he is luring him there to have him killed, then he’ll be hunted down anyway and lose his opportunity to get ahead of this, to defend himself.

_ Procedure _ : Edward will wear his good suit. It’s the one he’d want to be buried in, anyway.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you!! especially proud of Ed's pov. please let me know what you think!!!


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